Okay, so where did I leave off?

Friday night. Philips Arena. Crying.

Change Friday night to Saturday morning and that pretty much sums up the whole weekend.

I went into the weekend really wanting to hear from God and it’s funny how He responds to that. I think He was serious with that whole “Ask and it shall be given, seek and ye shall find” stuff.

Priscilla Shirer began her talk with Exodus 19:9. The minute she mentioned the wilderness I knew I was going to hear something powerful. I’ve spent so much time in the last few years feeling like I don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going. I’ve watched our lives take some crazy, unexpected turns that have left me breathless.

I was so moved to hear her talk about how God often calls you while you’re still in the wilderness. He brings you there to show you who He really is and I can say without a doubt that the last two years of my life have taught me more about God’s power and provision than any other time in my life.

On Saturday morning I woke up at 6:30 a.m. BEFORE THE ALARM EVEN WENT OFF.

This has never happened in the history of my life.

I was so excited about the day that I was actually up and dressed by 8 a.m. AND WAS HAPPY ABOUT IT.

Saturday was another awesome day. And, yes, I pretty much spent the whole day wiping tears from my eyes.

By the afternoon I looked as if I had a bad case of the pink eye.

Note to self: Don’t be afraid to bring some Visine next time

Another note to self: Also, some Kleenex might be a good idea.

The only thing that wasn’t fabulous about Saturday were the real issues that arise when there are 19,000 women in one arena who all need to go to the bathroom at various points throughout the day. I, myself, can go about ten times before noon on a good day.

However, I didn’t want to miss one minute of anything so I just tried to focus on other things that were unrelated to water or flowing rivers.

Finally, it was lunch time. Sophie and I planned to eat lunch with Annie who offered to bring us lunch. She met us down on the floor so we could follow her to the designated lunch spot. We needed to go to the bathroom, but took one look at the lines and decided we didn’t have 58 minutes, or the better part of my life, to spare.

After lunch, I thought my luck might be better.

I am so naive.

Did I honestly think that the restroom situation was going to improve after 19,000 women spent an hour drinking Diet Coke and assorted Starbucks beverages?

I started to wait in a line, but I could tell that there was a good chance I was going to die from old age or a bladder explosion before I actually made it to a stall, so I just headed back to my seat. I figured if I was going to die I might as well be enjoying some good praise and worship music.

Thankfully, I was able to get to a restroom located backstage. Otherwise I shudder to think at how badly it all could have ended.

At one point I was even considering the purchase of a Stadium Gal for my next Deeper Still Event.

Stadium Gal, for when you’ve gotta go, but you wanna stay.

I am not kidding. It’s a real product.

Maybe someone could make a special Deeper Still Stadium Gal.

Oh, there are so many multiple meanings in that title.

I talked to P yesterday morning and told him I was planning on cooking dinner. He told me to not worry about because we had plenty of leftovers in the fridge. He is a peach.

A little later on, I was reading some blogs and noticed that Barb had posted a recipe for a dish that involved sausage and potatoes. All of a sudden I knew there was no way I could eat leftovers. I must have sausage and potatoes. Barb’s dish called for some other ingredients, but I wanted to make them just like my Pa-Pa used to. Sausage, potatoes, a little onion, and lots of butter. It’s a meal that will keep cardiologists in business for years to come.

So I made it for dinner last night and it was good, but not as good as Pa-Pa’s.

The summer after my freshman year in college I lived with my Me-Ma and Pa-Pa. My mom had moved to Oklahoma, my daddy lived in Houston, and I wanted to spend the summer in Beaumont because that’s where my friends were, and most importantly my high school boyfriend who I’d been dating for the last two and a half years.

It wasn’t a good relationship and in truth I knew it was on its last legs, but I was nineteen, insecure, and desperate to hang on to something familiar. No one really thought I should stay in Beaumont, but Me-Ma and Pa-Pa agreed to let me spend the summer with them on two conditions. I had to go to summer school and I had to be in by 10:30 every night.

Think about that. I had just finished an entire year with all the freedom that college offers and I was going to spend the summer with a 10:30 curfew. Even on the weekends. That is what you call a tight ship.

The funny thing is that I respected their wishes. And at a time in my life when I wasn’t afraid to rebel against authority, I didn’t dare break their rules. At the time I wasn’t really sure why, but looking back I think it’s because they were my grandparents, they had always adored me and thought the best of me even when I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t want to disappoint them.

I thought I was staying with them and enduring a 10:30 curfew as a last resort, but I look back at that summer as one of the greatest gifts of my life. I’d always spent a lot of time with them because my daddy drove in from Houston every other weekend and we always spent the weekend at their house, but that summer I really got to know them in a way that can only happen when your daily lives are intertwined.

I had an 8:00 class every morning. I think it was a political science class but I honestly can’t remember because for me college wasn’t so much about the actual classroom experience as it was about the extracurricular activities, but I seem to remember some talk of various branches of the government. I’d wake up in the morning and stumble into the kitchen even though I’d had plenty of sleep the night before, thanks to my 10:30 curfew.

Me-Ma and Pa-Pa would be sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, and reading the newspaper. They’d also discuss what they needed from Market Basket that day because heaven knows not a day would pass without at least one trip to the Market Basket.

I’d head off to school and get back home around lunchtime. By then Pa-Pa had spent the morning watching The Price is Right and making the first trip of the day to Market Basket. They were gearing up for General Hospital which started at 2:00. I swear the sound of the ambulance in the opening credits of General Hospital will always make me think of their house.

Anyway, Pa-Pa was always a master of various culinary delights. Early on in my childhood he introduced me to the artery clogger known as a baloney sandwich on white bread with Miracle Whip. It makes me gag a little thinking about it now. However, my favorite Pa-Pa specialty was sausage and potatoes. I’d walk in from class and there he would be, standing over a skillet on the stove getting it all ready for me. “BIG MEL! The cook has your sausage and potatoes going!” I’ll never make them as good as he did.

That summer ended up being a defining summer for me. I finally broke up with the bad boyfriend, decided to go back to A&M in the fall, and managed to keep my weight at a decent level in spite of all the sausage and potatoes. I watched a lot of General Hospital and cried a lot of tears on my Me-Ma’s lap.

And I was home by 10:30 every night.

But I think the greatest gift I received that summer was spending every day with two people who thought I could do no wrong. They built me up and loved me unconditionally at a time when my self-confidence was at an all time low. They gave me a safe place that forced me to go back to childhood for a little while and catch my breath.

For that, and the sausage and potatoes, I will be forever grateful.

I just wish I could tell them how much.

I hope they knew.

Many years ago, when P and I were newly married and childless, a very nice family who had kids in our Campus Life ministry used to let us stay in their beach-front condo for one week every August. It was the perfect vacation for a couple of poor twenty-somethings and we looked forward to it every year.

We’d usually drive down there and stay for a few days by ourselves and then invite a few friends to come join us for the remainder of the week.

One summer P decided it would be fun to invite his friends Todd and Jay to join us and we could all go deep-sea fishing. I thought it was a great idea.

Because I am an idiot.

An idiot with very little short-term memory.

I get seasick. I know this. It’s been well-documented.

In fact, two weeks after P and I got married we were invited to go fishing with some dear family friends. Everything was fine until we started fishing in the surf. And then SICKNESS! NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE! Please someone throw me over the boat so that a shark will eat me piece by piece and this horrific seasickness will finally be over.

Not to mention the mortification of throwing up repeatedly in front of my very new husband and our friends.

While wearing a bathing suit.

Precious memories.

And sure some of it may be psychological, but to this day I don’t really do that well in the backseat of a car. Heaven help me if it gets hot. Even if I’m riding in the front seat I can’t turn around and look at Caroline in her booster without starting to feel that queasy feeling.

The point is I have motion sickness issues.

So, in hindsight, deep-sea fishing, not really the best idea.

But I was reeled in (get it?) by the thought of all the cool fish we might catch. Maybe I’d catch a huge swordfish even though I’m pretty sure they don’t live in the Gulf of Mexico. But they could have swam (swum? tomato? to-mah-to?) there for vacation and what if I was the first person to catch one?

Plus, I really wanted to go because I knew P really wanted me to go. It was going to be a great trip. Seasickness has no hold on me. It’s all about the power of POSITIVE thinking. OPTIMISTS UNITE.

However, as a precaution, I stocked up on Dramamine, Dramamine patches, and ginger pills which are supposed to help with the motion sickness.

Because I am like a Girl Scout. Always prepared.

The details of that morning are hazy, which is probably due to the fact that I’d already popped two Dramamine and was wearing a Dramamine patch on my arm. I just remember that we left well before daybreak, which should have been my first clue that I was not necessarily cut out for deep-sea fishing expeditions.

We arrived at the boat and were met by Captain Awesome and his first lieutenant, Tattoo. Honestly, I don’t remember their real names so I just made those up. It’s called CREATIVE LICENSE because I was too whacked on Dramamine to remember anything.

The boat started heading out towards the deep sea. And here’s a critical fact that I was not aware of, it takes a long time to get out to the deep sea. A really long time. Fear started to overtake me as I realized that I couldn’t just decide mid-day that I’d had enough of the fishing. I was clearly going to be stuck out at sea.

So I popped another Dramamine to quell my rising fear.

Finally we stopped at our destination which was, for lack of a better term, in the middle of the dadgum ocean. I couldn’t see the shore. I COULDN’T SEE THE SHORE.

Even now I can still feel the panic.

And the boat started rocking. Not rocking in a good way, like “rocking” from all the fun we were having. Oh no. It was rocking because of the waves. Oh sweet mercy the waves.

The sea was angry that day, my friends.

But not as angry as my stomach, which immediately began a mutiny on every meal I had ever consumed in my life.

Captain Awesome and Tattoo tried to distract me by baiting my hook and handing me a fishing pole. I think the logic was that if I could start catching fish I would forget about writing my will and screaming “JUST KILL ME NOW”.

All of a sudden my fishing pole almost bent in half and the line started dragging like crazy. Everyone was yelling at me to reel, reel, REEL! So I did and I forgot I was in total agony because I was about to bring in the largest fish ever caught in Texas deep-sea fishing history.

And I did catch something very large. Our boat.

That’s right, my friends. My line had gotten wrapped around our boat motor.

And that pretty much sums up how the rest of our day went.

P, Todd and Jay fished with Captain Awesome and Tattoo while I laid on the back of the boat, popping Dramamine repeatedly, hoping that seagulls would come carry me off and drop me in the mouth of a whale to put the final nail in this hell I was living out.

We didn’t catch one fish that day. Not one.

Captain Awesome was not awesome. He was the devil. The devil that knew nothing about fishing. The devil that had bought a boat on a whim and a book called “So You Want to Be A Deep-Sea Fishing Guide” and then forgotten to read the book.

In fact his last words to us, as he took his money for the day, were “I’m going to go get drunk”.

But no matter how much he drank, I bet he wasn’t as hung over as I was three days later when I finally woke up from my Dramamine-induced coma. P said at one point he thought about holding a mirror under my nose to make sure I was still breathing.

P and his friends were furious about the way the trip had turned out. Not because I had almost died at sea mind you, but because we hadn’t caught any fish.

Which warms my heart to this day.

They felt that Captain Awesome had misled them about the way he fished and the places we would go to find fish, and since P had read about Captain Awesome in Texas Fish and Game magazine (not to be confused with Cheaper Than Dirt!) he wrote a letter to the editor voicing his displeasure.

He had me proofread the letter before he sent it, because I may not be able to deep-sea fish, but boy can I proofread. And that’s what every man really wants, a good editor.

The letter talked about our disappointment in the day and how Captain Awesome hadn’t lived up to the hype of the article about him in Texas Fish and Game. It was passionate and heartfelt. Our struggle with the angry sea and a belligerent captain. Like a modern day “Moby Dick”.

But my favorite line of the whole letter, in fact maybe my favorite line ever, was the part where P wrote, “The real tragedy is that because of this experience my wife will never go deep-sea fishing again.”

I told him to add an exclamation point to that sentence. And put “never” in all caps.

Even though I disagreed with him.

The real tragedy is that I spent four days of my life passed out from Dramamine. Days that could have been spent lying by the pool. Looking at water that doesn’t move.

So, it’s New Year’s Eve.

We’ve had an incredibly exciting day here. Really, I hesitate to share because I don’t want to create envy and bitterness over the fabulousness that is my life.

P has fever and hasn’t felt well all day. I spent the day setting up a new bed in Caroline’s room and cleaning out her closet. Caroline left to go out to eat Italian food with Mimi and Bops and then spend the night with them.

I’m so proud that our four year old is having a more exciting New Year’s Eve than her parents.

Of course I did go to Central Market and pick up some chicken noodle soup for P, so it’s not like my day has been completely without fun and adventure.

And now, we are sitting side by side on the couch in our flannel pjs watching the Chick-Fil-A Bowl. Dick Clark can only hope his New Year’s is this rockin’.

But, in all honesty, I couldn’t care less. I have had my share of festive New Year’s celebrations. Including one unfortunate year that involved me wearing red jeans, a sequined shirt and being overserved to the point of getting lost on my way back from the restroom at Chuy’s Mexican Restaurant.

I don’t know what’s saddest about that event, but I’m pretty sure it’s the red jeans. Although the sequined shirt is a close runner up.

There was also the New Year’s that P and I broke up because he wouldn’t come home from the ranch to celebrate a “fake holiday”. Gulley and I ended up spending that New Year’s together. We ate way too much at Carrabba’s and I think I had too much wine, which is my only excuse for how many times I belted out Faith Hill’s “It Matters To Me” because I felt like it best summed up my feelings about P’s New Year’s Eve apathy.

I bet Gulley doesn’t remember that year as her favorite New Year’s celebration.

But P shot a nice 10 pointer on New Year’s Day, which only served to confirm in his mind that he made the right choice.

And these days I tend to agree with him that big New Year’s celebrations are highly overrated. In fact, we received an invitation to an unbelievably fancy New Year’s Eve party this year. The invitation was hand-delivered. In a box. With a beaded chandelier inside the box. The attire was Couture/Black tie.

We turned it down. Because these days we prefer non-couture flannel. And watching bowl games. While taking lots of Sudafed.

But, because it is the end of another year, I have spent some time over the last few days thinking about 2007. I will now share those thoughts here because this is, after all, a record of my life. And while there are so many things I tell y’all on a daily basis, there are many that I don’t.

2007 has been a year of incredible transition. If someone had sat me down in January of 2007 and told me all the things this year would bring, I think I may have curled up in the fetal position and stayed there for the next twelve months. It’s been a year that has refined my faith in ways I didn’t even know it needed to be refined.

This year has been a 12 month process of God stripping away everything in which I’ve tried to find security. In January, I was faced with false allegations that made me fear I’d lose my job and just the thought of that possibility sent me into near hysteria (or if I’m being completely honest, full blown hysteria). The allegations were proven false, but then some other things happened along the way that led P and me to make the decision for me to resign in April.

The pharmaceutical job I’d held for ten years was gone. The income, the company car, the benefits were gone. But, I consoled myself with how well P’s business was doing and how much money we had in various accounts. We were totally fine.

And then P’s best employee ended up going to jail (it’s a long story), which slowed down the progress they were able to make on various jobs. Shortly thereafter, P’s back went out again and we knew he was going to need surgery.

Our new insurance didn’t want to pay on some of the claims which left us with medical bills higher than we expected, the brakes went out on P’s truck, we had to get some major dental work done, and finally, someone wanted to break out my car window right before Christmas.

We began to joke that we might as well just start flushing hundred dollar bills down the toilet because it was a more efficient way to drain our bank account.

The Bible study my group did in the fall was “A Woman’s Heart” by Beth Moore. In Week 2 of that study, Beth wrote, “Take the risk of inviting Him to do whatever He must to fan your flame again.” I knew as soon as I read it that God was calling me to take that risk. And I didn’t want to because I was scared.

But I did it. And y’all need to know that I did it with much fear and trembling. I had no idea what was going to happen but I knew that I had lost some of my passion for Him and I wanted it back. Ultimately, my need was stronger than my fear. Which means I had ALOT of need.

And that’s when the bottom fell out. But, honestly, it was almost comically apparent what God was trying to show me about myself. I have been so guilty in finding my security in the things this world offers. It’s not even that I love money so much or have to have it, I just like the security it offers. I felt like as long as our bank account had a certain balance then everything would be okay.

The irony is that “A Woman’s Heart” follows the Israelites as Moses leads them out of Egypt and to the Promised Land. I spent a lot of time being like the Israelites grumbling to myself, “I don’t know why God led me away from my job and all that security if He’s just going to hang us out to dry like this.”

But then God reminded me how He provided manna for the children of Israel every morning. He gave them what they needed for that day. Their security had to be in Him and in His provision. FOR THAT DAY. And that’s what He’s promised me, He will give us what we need for that day.

His provision doesn’t hinge on what the bank says we have or what the stock market does. He is over all those things and He is faithful and just to provide.

I’ve spent this year being refined in a way that I have never before been refined, but I can also say I have drawn closer to Him than I ever have before at any time in my life. When all the fears and worries begin to rise up, I’ve learned to run to Him instead of adding up bills in my head and trying to come up with my own solution.

At one point this month, after another setback had come in, I sat at the desk and started to cry. I opened my Bible and this is the passage I found:

“I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them.” Isaiah 42:16

And as I’ve prayed for 2008 and all that this new year holds, the verse that keeps coming back to me is:

“You will be blessed in the city and blessed in the country. The fruit of your womb will be blessed, and the crops of your land and the young of your livestock - the calves of your herds and the lambs of your flocks. Your basket and your kneading trough will be blessed. You will be blessed when you come in and blessed when you go out. The Lord will grant that the enemies who rise up against you will be defeated before you. They will come at you from one direction but flee from you in seven. The Lord will send a blessing on your barns and on everything you put your hand to. The Lord your God will bless you in the land he is giving you.” Deuteronomy 28: 3-8

2007 has been a year of God leading me into a new land. A year of me questioning what I believe and how much I believe it. A year of me learning that it’s okay to ask Him to help me overcome my unbelief. A year of me literally putting my money where my mouth is or more accurately where my heart is. A year of learning to trust in Him in ways that I have never trusted before. It has been a hard year and there are still struggles ahead, but I know that He that began a good work in me will carry it on to completion.

And as I completed my Bible study of Moses and the tabernacle, I learned something that I had never realized before. It’s something that really resonated with me. From the time Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt, through all the grumbling in the desert, through all the hardships, to the completion of the tabernacle, one year had passed. ONE YEAR. How is that even possible that all that happened in one year? As Beth says, “It had been the worst year of his life and the best year of his life.”

I feel you, Moses. I think that’s how I’ll remember 2007. The best and the worst. But I already know that, like Moses, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I’m sorry this is so long. I knew it would be, but my heart was full of so much to say and I had to get it all out. If you’ve read this far, then God bless you for your patience.

I wish you all a Happy 2008 filled with all good things! My life is richer because y’all show up here every day.

Okay, so I have been at war with myself over whether or not to write this post. But the part of me that cares about what people think has lost the battle. I am compelled to share something with the world wide web that is causing me to swallow my pride.

Put your hands in the air if you watched (and loved) The Osmond Family on Oprah last Friday.

I’m so ashamed.

I wanted to think that I was above Osmondmania. In fact, I almost deleted the entire show off my DVR. But the kind hand of television fate intervened, and since P had taken Caroline to the ranch for the whole day on Sunday and I had time on my hands, I decided to go ahead and watch the first few minutes just to see how The Osmonds were holding up.

Oh, pride goeth before a fall.

I have prided myself that I have been above watching Marie on “Dancing With The Stars”, even after hearing she passed out cold on national television. And, really, that’s just good T.V.

I have even scoffed at Marie selling her dolls on QVC because, really, the whole doll collection thing is just beyond my realm of comprehension.

Please don’t be offended if you collect dolls. That’s great. I’m just saying that they kind of creep me out. I’m not proud of the fact that I still have to remove all the dolls from the room I sleep in when I visit my Nanny. It’s just who I am.

I’m a big coward who is afraid of glass eyes that stare off into space and heads topped with unnaturally flipped hair with jaunty berets on top.

Anyway, The Osmonds. I’m fascinated. There were like over 632 of them on Oprah’s stage and not one of them has an immediate family of less than 26 children or something like that. And they all look alike. And they all have perpetual smiles.

And I am afraid I am going to be tempted to shell out big bucks to attend The Osmond Family Reunion Tour.

I know. I’m frightening even myself.

Oh, I pretend to be above it all, but I AM NOT. I am a weak vessel given to waves of 70’s nostalgia.

After all, Donny Osmond was really my first love.

I would spend Friday nights not more than 5 inches away from our huge console television because I believed Donny could see me watching him while I wore my purple socks. I felt connected to him because I understood his love of purple socks and I, too, believed I was a little bit rock-n-roll.

Sadly, this wouldn’t be the last time I would decide something was my favorite thing because it was also the favorite thing of the boy I liked. Hence, my great love of Dr. Pepper throughout my 7th and 8th grade years because of a guy named Kendall. I was sure our common bond of drinking Dr. Pepper would seal our joy for eternity. But then he moved out of town and I went back to drinking Coke, which at the time was Coke Classic because of a huge marketing blunder by the bigwigs at the Coca-Cola company.

Where was I?

Oh, Donny.

I remember being heartbroken when I found out that Donny couldn’t actually see me through the T.V. screen. I just knew if he could see me he would be immediately smitten with the six year old girl in her Snoopy nightgown, missing her front tooth, re-enacting the entire “Donny and Marie Show” with her Donny and Marie dolls complete with soundstage set.

And really, I can’t even get into how envious I was of my friend ZZ, who not only had a Donny and Marie lunchbox, but also a Donny and Marie 8-track player. I believe that’s when I learned firsthand what the Bible means when it says “Do not covet your neighbor’s donkey”…or their 8-track player.

But then, Donny and I grew apart. His show went off the air, he got married, and I was over him. It was a tough transition but, eventually, Rick Springfield came along and I forgot all about Donny.

I believe it was 1988 when he came back on the scene with “Soldier of Love”.

Anyone?

“Soldier of Love”?

Until now, I have never publicly admitted how much I liked that song, but I did. I may have even bought the cassette tape.

Oh, the shame.

So, when I Donny and Marie opened the Oprah show with a medley of songs that was reminiscent of The Sweeney Sisters, I was ready to point and laugh with disdain. I was prepared to roll my eyes and ask no one in particular, who cares about The Osmonds anymore?

But then, Donny began singing “Puppy Love” and either I had allergies or I might have had a tear in my eye over what we used to have.

I’ll never tell which one it was.

I mentioned last week, while I was in Bryan/College Station, Gulley and I went to visit our friend Tiff. What I failed to mention was that Tiff was in the process of baking 500 cookies. Because that’s what Tiff does. She bakes 500 cookies, manages her 4 kids, looks fabulous and makes it all look effortless.

As opposed to me, who burns Nestle Ultimates while yelling at my 4 year old to untie the dog from the patio furniture.

You say potato, I say po-tah-to.

Anyway, Tiff wasn’t baking 500 cookies for the heck of it. She has a cake and cookie business. I believe I’ve mentioned before that she brought a basket of the most gorgeous cookies to hand out to hospital personnel when she went in to deliver her 4th child this summer. Whatever. I totally let the nurse who took care of me after I had Caroline have a handful of my M&M’s right out of the bag. It’s pretty much the same thing.

Tiff explained that a sorority ordered the 500 cookies for part of their Rush Week activities. She couldn’t remember which sorority ordered the cookies, but we got into a conversation about the brief moment in time that I was a sorority girl. I never really was the sorority type and, at the time, the Greek system at A&M just wasn’t really a big deal. However, a bunch of my friends were going through rush, and I decided I should too.

And yes, if they had jumped off a cliff, I probably would have also. I was a bastion of security at 18.

The sorority thing was a short-lived love affair, largely due to the fact that I had a hard time taking the whole thing seriously. And once I went through initiation, which involved me reciting phrases that included the words “Lo, the sun”, it pretty much sealed the deal that sorority life was over for me. The problem was, in a moment of 18-year-old insanity, I had already agreed to live in the sorority house the following year.

So, when I informed the girls that I wanted to essentially quit the sorority, they told me I couldn’t because I had to live in the house. It was a situation fraught with the kind of drama that only people with too much time on their hands can create. I feel certain that their burning desire for me to live in the sorority house was based much more on the love of monthly dues, rather than their longing for me to remain a Delta Phi Zeta.

The Greek tragedy ended with my dad calling his attorney to see if there was a way to get me out of living in the house. Fortunately for me, the real estate laws were written for fools and 18 year olds, and anything signed by someone under 21 years of age wasn’t binding. Thus, I quit the sorority and was able to move into an apartment with my friends.

Anyway, Tiff and I were laughing about my illustrious career as a sorority girl and, needless to say, I haven’t stayed in touch with any of my former sisters.

The next day, Tiff went to deliver the cookies to the girls and said, “I never asked, what sorority are y’all?” They said, “Oh, we’re Delta Phi Zetas.” (Which isn’t a real sorority as far as I know, but I’m not using the real name for fear they might hunt me down and make me recite some solemn vows) Without thinking, Tiff said, “Oh, one of my very best friends was here yesterday and she was a Delta Phi Zeta.”

This revelation was met with squeals of excitement. The girls asked, “Where does she live?” and Tiff told them I lived in San Antonio. And in an unbelieveable coincidence, it turns out that the entire San Antonio branch of Delta Phi Zeta alumni was driving into College Station the next day to help with Rush Week activities. They asked Tiff if I was involved in the alumni group and, in the understatement of the year, she said, “No, I don’t think she is.”

Because sororities are funny about former members who once threatened them with a lawsuit.

A few hours later they called Tiff and wanted my name and number so they could contact me and get me involved. In other words, they’re looking for another sucker to come hang paper flower chains all over the living room of the sorority house for Rush Week.

Tiff reluctantly gave them my name and phone number because she didn’t know what else to do, but then they asked her what my maiden name was. She didn’t want to tell them, because she knew there was a good chance that they would look me up and find an old composite photo from 1990 that showed me with a big black X over my face with arrows pointing to me saying “She is dead to us.”

So, instead, she said the only thing she could think of at the time. “I can’t remember her maiden name.”

Because I am only one of her dearest, best friends. In fact, we are such great friends that we were bridesmaids in each other’s weddings and we’ve stayed in touch all these years.

No way she could be expected to remember my maiden name.

At this point, a week has gone by and I have yet to answer my phone and hear a perky sorority girl on the end of the line.

But I have my lawyer on retainer just in case.

I saw this meme over at It Coulda’ Been Worse last week and knew I would do it eventually. I had no idea that eventually would be this soon, but after a completely uneventful week that resorted to me telling a 10 year old shark story, and a stellar lack of creativity, here it is. A little walk down memory lane, back to my days at West Brook High School. Let’s hope this time my Liz Claiborne jean jacket doesn’t get stolen out of my locker.

I knew getting assigned a locker in J Hall was just bad news.

1. Who was your best friend? Throughout most of high school it was Jodi Brockhouse. We were inseparable, but had a falling out the summer before our senior year. Sad times. So, I had a close group of friends, but not really one best friend.

2. Did you play any sports? I played soccer. And I use the term “played” loosely. If memory serves I played for two reasons, so that I could have another picture in the yearbook and to have something else to put on my college applications.

Notice that neither of those reasons have anything to do with actual athletic ability.

3. What kind of car did you drive? A sweet, sweet black Honda CRX. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Oh yes ma’am. It only sat two people comfortably, but my senior year we decided to see how many people we could cram into it. I believe we reached a number somewhere around 15.

High school kids are smart.

4. It’s Friday night. Where were you? If it was football season then I was at the game performing at halftime with my batons o’ fire. I’m totally kidding. I cannot twirl and certainly wouldn’t attempt to do so with pyrotechnics. Fire and the amount of Flexnet in my hair would have been a lethal combination. Think Michael Jackson on the set of that Pepsi commercial.

I danced. I was on the dance team. Apparently, they didn’t require a lot of rhythm.

And why yes, I did steal Colonel Sander’s outfit. I can fry a mean chicken using a secret recipe of 11 herbs and spices.

5. Were you a party animal? I don’t know if “animal” is the right word, but I did my fair share of celebrating. Our favorite party spot was at this abandoned warehouse that some guy’s daddy owned and, apparently, forgot he had given his son the keys. Thinking back, I’m not sure what was so appealing about standing in a cold warehouse in the freezing cold drinking Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, but 17 year olds aren’t really known for their discriminating tastes in social functions.

6. Were you considered a flirt? I feel fairly certain that I probably was, although I tended to get really shy around guys I actually liked for, you know, like more than a friend.

7. Were you in the band, orchestra or choir? No. My days in band and choir ended in junior high when it became apparent that my mouth was shaped wrong to play the flute and my voice was just plain wrong.

8. Were you a nerd? On the inside. For sure. On the outside, I put on a pretty good show of coolness.

9. Were you ever suspended or expelled? Even all these years later, this makes my face get all hot. I wasn’t suspended but I did get detention for saying a bad word in front of the principal. Not on purpose. He overheard me. It was a proud moment made even prouder when I had to tell my mama. I’ll never forget that we were in the Burger King drive-thru when I finally worked up my courage. Her response was a loud gasp as she said, “I didn’t even know you knew that word!”

Proud. So proud.

10. Can you sing the fight song? Not a chance. Although there was a time that I could have recalled some dance team choreography to it.

11. Who was your favorite teacher? Coach Breithaupt. He was my sophomore English teacher and encouraged my love of writing. He also let me go to the nurse one day after my boyfriend broke up with me and I couldn’t hold it together. He had pity on my teen angst.

12. What was your school mascot? The Bruin. It’s a bear.

13. Did you go to the Prom? Oh yes. The theme was “One Moment in Time”. Thank you, Whitney Houston.

14. If you could go back, would you? Oh no. Whitney knew what she was talking about, it’s meant to be just “One Moment in Time”. By March of my senior year, I was ready to be done with high school and I’ve never looked back.

15. What do you remember most about graduation? Sadly, I don’t remember much of anything about graduation. I do remember that the school hosted “Project Graduation” to keep us all safe and sober. My friends and I spent the night fake gambling in a fake casino in the school gym and then the minute they let us out at 6 a.m. the next morning, we all drove to the beach.

That was safe.

It’s a wonder I got that cap to stay on my head seeing as how it had to compete with the mass of hair.

16. Where were you on Senior Skip Day? I skipped school often enough in the spring of my senior year that I didn’t really feel the need to take advantage of a senior skip day.

17. Did you have a job your senior year? I can’t remember if it was junior year or senior year, but one of those years I worked at Bealls’ Department Store in the junior section, which was right across from the lingerie department. I have memories of my fellow workers and me putting large women brassieres on our bottoms and thinking it was hysterical.

18. Where did you go most often for lunch? We had to stay on campus for lunch. I have documented that experience and my love of the a la carte line burritos here.

19. Have you gained weight since then? I don’t think I have. It’s just that the weight has shifted to other areas.

20. What did you do after graduation? See #15. Oh, and in the fall I went to Texas A&M University, graduated in May ‘94 and moved to San Antonio. I have worked in financial sales, door sales (not door to door, I actually sold doors), pharmaceutical sales, and most recently, “yes you are having peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch” sales.

21. What year did you graduate? We’re so great, we’re so fine, we’re the class of ‘89. Sweet mercy, how do I remember that yet can’t remember to buy dog food at the grocery store?

22. Who was your Senior Prom Date? The boy I dated throughout my senior year.

23. Are you going/did you go to your 10 year reunion? I went to my 10 year reunion and unbelievably, my 20 year reunion is right around the corner. We’ll see. I don’t have a burning desire to go. I wish someone would just send me a book with current photos and biographies. It would be all the fun without all the small talk.

Here’s one more picture I found of myself that I can’t believe I’m actually putting up. However, I feel that the look of total disdain on my face for everyone in the universe combined with the drum majorette style dress a la Michael Jackson, completely and totally sums up my entire high school experience.

Like, GAH, just take the picture. I need to go dance to some Debbie Gibson.

If y’all want to play along, have fun and let me know.

And don’t forget to sign up for prom committee.

Every summer about this time, the Discovery Channel decides it’s a good idea to broadcast Shark Week, a series of shows that all focus on the man-eating power of sharks. Most of the shows have titles like “Top Five Eaten Alive”, “Deadliest Sharks of the Universe” and “Blood Runs Red in the Ocean”. It’s lighthearted viewing fun for the whole family right in the middle of the summer season. Apparently, the programming staff at Discovery Channel is bitter, angry and hellbent on ruining any fun you might have been planning to have at the beach this summer.

P and Caroline love Shark Week. They watch all the shark shows and note the differences between a tiger shark versus a lemon shark, while I sit and wonder who these people are and how I ended up living in this house with them. A shark is a shark. They all have sharp teeth and will EAT YOU ALIVE if given the chance. I firmly believe this to be true, even though every year on one of these shows, some Professor of Sharkology will say that most of the time a shark isn’t interested in eating you, they’re just tasting you. Oh yeah? Tell that to the girl who used to have a left leg.

Something tells me she doesn’t find solace in the fact that the shark was just confirming she wasn’t a wounded seal.

Last night, Shark Week was on full force at our house and I couldn’t help myself, I started watching “Top Five Eaten Alive”. It was a harrowing tale of some poor girl swimming off the coast of Easter Island and having her entire leg bitten off. And I was the picture of sympathy as I sat eating my Sour Patch Kids while listening to her tale of life and death struggle. Then, I remembered that P and I have our own story about narrowly surviving (maybe not narrowly surviving, as much as kind of coming close to the possibility) a shark attack and had to share it with y’all.

Thank you Shark Week for providing blog material.

P and I went to a little island in the Bahamas called Exuma for our honeymoon. It’s a tiny, tiny little island known for its stellar bonefishing and pretty beaches. The water is as clear as glass and we rented some snorkeling equipment so we could explore all the different coral reefs that were practically right outside our hotel room. The first day we went snorkeling we swam out to where a private plane had wrecked years before and multitudes of rainbow-hued fish had since claimed the wreckage as home. We found huge conch shells, giant starfish and all kinds of incredible things.

It was fun but, every time we got to the edge of the wreckage, we could see where the ocean dropped off and became that deep, dark blue. This was in the days before I had seen “Finding Nemo” 1,842 times and knew what a terrible place the drop off really is, but, even so, I knew it was eerie and just thinking about it right now gives me a shiver up my spine. Eventually, a barracuda made his way to where we were swimming so, because we value our limbs, we decided to call it a day.

The next day, we decided to stick closer to home. There was a big bay area of water that had huge rock formations on either side creating a cove. We’d spent the morning lying in the sun and decided to put on our snorkeling equipment and swim out to a big coral reef we could see out in the distance. We started swimming and it was further than it had originally looked, so we stopped to tread water and discuss whether or not we were going to keep heading out.

About that time, a small boat that appeared out of nowhere pulled up next to us. It was an elderly man and he said, “You kids probably need to head back to the shore. There’s a 12 foot hammerhead shark that’s been swimming around this cove all morning.”

Umm yeah, you know those scenes in cartoons where the characters literally run on top of the water? That’s about what we looked like. We turned tail and swam like we have never swam in our lives. And when we finally got to the edge of the water, we collapsed on the beach, panting for air. Then, we looked out to wave our thanks to the man in the boat. But he was gone.

I’m telling you there is no way he could have gotten the boat out of that cove by the time we swam to the shore. And as we strained our eyes to see if we could see him in the distance, all we saw instead was a huge, shadowy figure about 12 feet long swimming right in front of the coral reef we had been heading towards.

I don’t know how many other times I have been protected from various dangers by guardian angels, but I have no doubt that on that day in August of ‘97, P and I were guided by an angel wearing a fishing hat.

I’m just glad he was there to give the warning, even if it means I missed a shot at starring in my own Shark Week story of man versus beast.

Psalm 91: 9-11 “If you make the Most High your dwelling–even the Lord, who is my refuge–then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent. For He will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. You will tread upon the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent.”

And the shark.

Anyway, I vaguely remember the day we moved into our new house on Misty Lea Lane. A few things stood out to me immediately. The first was that we had a fire hydrant in our front yard. I thought that was about the greatest thing ever and if, at the age of 5, I had been allowed to write the MLS listing of our new home it would have read like this: 4 BR, 2 1/2 BA, NEW CARPET AND FIRE HYDRANT IN FRONT YARD. The other feature that took my breath away was the fact that it was two stories. The stairs offered an endless amount of possibilities for entertainment. And lastly, the wallpaper in the entryway was a flocked, velvet texture in a lovely shade of avocado green. I remember feeling that wallpaper with my fingertips and thinking, “Lawsy, we sho’ is rich now Miz Scarlett.”

One of the best features of the house was that the downstairs portion made a complete circle. If my friends and I wanted to play hide and seek, we could start in the formal living room, which led to the family room, which led to the breakfast area and kitchen, then the dining room and back to the living room. It allowed for endless games of chase. And there was a closet in the den, right next to the wet bar (love the 70’s and the requisite wet bar), that was tucked under the stairs so that the ceiling of it was slanted. It fascinated me to no end.

All the bedrooms were upstairs with my parents’ bedroom on one side of the staircase and the other 3 bedrooms on the other side. I remember lying in bed at night, trying to gather up my courage to walk to their room, knowing I would have to walk past the stairs and heaven only knows what could have been lurking at the bottom of those stairs just waiting for a 6 year old in a Holly Hobby nightgown to walk by.

I had my own room with a brass bed with an old-fashioned bedspread with yellow flowers on it but, in reality, my sister and I shared her bedroom. She had two twin beds with pink headboards, and I slept in the room with her every night because I gave new meaning to the word scaredy-cat. I’m not sure what kind of defense I thought a 3 year old in Winnie the Pooh pajamas would offer me from the boogeyman, but I felt better knowing she was there. Plus, when insomnia hit us, we had a playmate right in the next bed. And my sister always kept a stash of Sunmaid raisins in her nightstand drawer which, looking back, was sheer brilliance on her part.

The remaining bedroom was a guest bedroom/playroom. It was filled with our Barbies and their townhome, complete with elevator, various baby dolls and doll beds, and a record player so that we could listen to The Bee-Gees or Olivia Newton-John. We spent hours playing in that room and Barbie put on many the concert with her Olivia Newton-John lipsynching skills.

One of the best things that ever happened to that house was when my parents got it professionally landscaped. The landscapers filled the yard with flower beds covered in dark, pine mulch and each flower bed had a little ditch feature around it to keep the grass from encroaching on the bed. My friends and I would fill up those little moats with water, drag Barbie out there in her Winnebago and have a good, old fashioned Barbie campout complete with a river. It was treacherous terrain for Barbie and Ken, roughing it out there amongst the azaleas.

We had a metal swing set with pastel-colored stripes winding around the legs. Whatever happened to the good old metal swingsets? They’ve been killed off by the wooden playscape, probably because all of the tetanus shots kids of the 70’s had to have after being cut by a sharp piece of metal sticking out of a see-saw.

We would spend hours swinging and jumping out of our swings. Twisting them around and around until the chains creaked and couldn’t go any tighter, and then spinning wildly out of control, stumbling off the swing and falling facedown in the St. Augustine grass.

The backyard also had a cement patio and it was the scene of much of my early rollerskating choreography. I would put on my new white rollerskates with lime green wheels and stoppers, and come up with routines that would make Olivia Newton-John and the entire cast of Xanadu weep with envy. It was just a matter of time before a talent scout discovered me on the back patio and begged me to come to Hollywood, or maybe just The Magic Skate.

Our house was on a street with a cul-de-sac and there was never a shortage of kids to play with, night or day. This was back in the days when parents didn’t live in as much fear as we do now, and we were allowed to freely roam the streets of the neighborhood in pre-adolescent gangs, searching for the next game of kickball, freeze tag, or hide and seek. And finally, dusk would fall and you’d hear mamas all up and down the street calling for their kids to come inside and eat supper. My best friend, Caroline Fletcher, lived two houses down and we probably killed the neighbors’ lawns in between our houses with all the running back and forth we did all day long.

I’m the one on the end with the goofy look on my face. Obviously, I have always been shy and reserved.

We lived in the house until the summer before I started 7th grade. By then, Caroline Fletcher and her family had moved away and so had several other families. I guess on to bigger and better parts of suburbia. My parents had gotten divorced, so my mama moved us to Beaumont to live down the street from her mama and daddy. We moved into a smaller house in Beaumont, one that holds just as many memories, but memories of teen years and bedroom walls filled with Homecoming mums and cheerleader pom-poms.

When I think of my childhood home, I always think of the yellow two-story house on Misty Lea Lane with the white shutters and a mailbox out front that my Big Bob built that was a perfect replica of the big house. It was the place where I built my memories of childhood; long summer nights filled with fireflies and kick the can, 4th of July block parties in the cul-de-sac, walking home from the bus stop after a long day of school, and riding my blue bike with the flowered banana seat up and down the block while Caroline Fletcher rode her Green Machine right next to me. Memories I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world, memories that surprise me even now as I sit here with tears in my eyes, filled with more nostalgia than should be allowed.

If you want to share memories of your childhood home, head on over to Mary at Owlhaven’s for more information. Or if you just want to read some other memories, then go check out all the links.

Meanwhile, I’m off to help Caroline create some childhood memories of her own.

I’ve been racking my brain the entire weekend, or at least for the last 5 minutes, trying to figure out how on earth I’m going to sum up this weekend without writing a novel. Let’s face it, brevity isn’t my gift even when I don’t have anything to say. I think I might write a weeklong series about our trip to the coast, but instead of a week, it will just be a two-day series because I’m not that ambitious. Just think of it like a mini-series along the lines of “Lonesome Dove”, but without the fine, literary quality. Or Robert Duvall.

Therefore, probably without the Emmy Awards also.

But who cares? I’ve got two days worth of writing material and I’m going to enjoy it. Especially since my brain froze up last week and I could no longer write with all the words that a blog requires. Apparently y’all don’t come over here to stare at blank space.

We spent this past weekend in Rockport, Texas with the Jones family (and no, their last name isn’t really Jones, but it will be here for the sake of the internet). We had a great time and Caroline spent pretty much the entire drive home asking why we couldn’t turn the car around and go back. Obviously, she was completely homesick.

For the coast.

P first met the Jones family about 16 years ago when his little brother became friends with Stew, who is B and Cindy Jones’ oldest son. They invited P to join them at the coast one weekend back in 1991, introduced him to the world of bay fishing, and his life hasn’t been the same since. I’d like to say that marrying me was the most profound thing that has happened in P’s life but, truth be told, it may have been the day he caught his first redfish.

When P and I first began dating way back in 1995, he talked about the Jones family a lot. I had been around their son, Stew, a bunch of times because he spent a lot of time at the ranch with P’s brother having contests to see who could go the longest without showering or wear the worst looking clothes to Garcia’s Mexican restaurant. Sixteen year old boys are awesome to hang out with when you’re trying to find a romantic moment with your boyfriend, by the way. I highly recommend it. But anyway, in addition to Stew, the Jones’ also have two daughters, Dea and Cat.

During the summer of ‘96, I was invited to join them at their house in Rockport. I was thrilled at this acknowledgement of legitimate, potential future wife of P status and also, a little nervous because I had a feeling that if I didn’t pass the test, it could be a deal breaker.

I must have passed the test because I was invited back several times over the course of that summer of ‘96 and pretty much every summer since then. It’s one of my favorite places and holds so many memories of when P and I were just a couple of crazy, young, and, most importantly, thin kids in love.

As I looked around the familiar coast house this weekend, it was weird to think of how much has changed since my first visit all those years ago. I remember the first time I met Dea and Cat, they were just little junior high girls that spent most of the day making friendship bracelets with a bunch of their junior high friends or drawing pictures with markers. This time, it was my daughter playing with the markers and Dea and Cat were there with their husbands, and Cat’s expecting her own baby in January. Stew came upstairs last night and announced he was going out to meet some friends, and I was kind of surprised until I realized that since he’s an almost 30 year old man, he’s pretty much free to do what he wants to do, whenever he wants to do it.

Everybody has grown up.

One of my most vivid, if not necessarily favorite, memories of being at the coast is a trip we took two weeks after P and I got married. B & Cindy invited just P and me down for a weekend of fishing. We were so excited. It was going to be like a honeymoon after the honeymoon.

That Saturday morning we got up bright and early which, looking back, assures me that I was totally and completely in love with P even back then, because me and 5 a.m.? Don’t really go together. These days I wouldn’t attend a shoe sale at Nordstroms at 5 a.m., much less get up to go catch fish. Anyway, we headed out in the boat, and after a morning of fishing without much success, decided to try something a little more adventurous and go fish out in the surf. And I was all, “SURE! GREAT! LET’S FISH IN THE SURF! IT WILL BE AWESOME! WHOO-HOO!”

Because that was back when I was young and naive and said “WHOO-HOO!” and had no idea that I suffer from the horrible wretchedness that is the seasickness. Although, looking back, the fact that I have trouble riding in the backseat of a car should have been a prime indicator that perhaps the rough, tumultuous ocean would not be my friend. But I was IN LOVE! NEWLY MARRIED! BIRDS WERE SINGING AND BELLS WERE RINGING! I CAN DO ANYTHING!

Except for be on a boat with all the rocking motions with all the rocking and the rocking.

And the rocking.

We anchored the boat in the surf and I immediately started to sense that this wasn’t going to end well. And then, B started to pull bait out of the livewell, which is the smell equivalent of a 4 day old tunafish sandwich sitting in the hot sun, and I felt certain that P was about to see a side of his new bride that he had never dreamed existed. I tried to fight it as they started casting out their lines and, much to my dismay, actually catching fish. Big fish. Big, nice trout. I’ve never liked to be the one to end the party so I continued to think happy thoughts about dry land and steady ground.

It worked really well until the next big wave hit. It sent me running for the side of the boat and I leaned over very gracefully and delicately, I’m sure, and deposited everything I had eaten for the last 6 months in the ocean. Over and over again. P yelled to B that we were going to need to leave and B looked over, saw me leaning halfway out of the boat and thought I was pulling up the anchor in my haste to leave. When he realized that I was, in fact, throwing up my small intestine, he grabbed the anchor himself, pulled it up and got me to dry land as quickly as possible.

It was just a delicate, sweet moment of newlywed bliss. Some couples wait years to have the privilege of seeing their spouse throw up repeatedly in front of dear, old family friends. It warms my heart to this day to realize P had that blessing after just 2 weeks.

Yesterday evening, we were sitting around the living room at the coast talking about old memories and how much has happened over the years and Cat and Dea started talking about the first time they ever met me. Cat said, “I used to think you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.” And I said, “Used to? What’s all this ‘used to’ business?” She and Dea agreed that they thought I was so beautiful because I was so tan and wore this orange coverup that made me look even more tan. And beautiful. Did I mention beautiful?

So, good news! I’m thinking if I can just get a little more sun and find that orange coverup and, perhaps, a time machine, I can regain my status as “the most beautiful girl” Cat and Dea have ever seen. Or maybe not. Especially considering that they’ve moved on in life and their horizons for comparison have widened beyond the world of 12 year old girls with braces on their teeth who sit next to them in Pre-Algebra.

The tables have turned or, should I say, the tide has shifted. Now they’re the ones in their 20’s, all tanned and fabulous, and I’m the girl with braces on my teeth.

Who throws up over the side of boats.

Stay tuned for the conclusion of this two part series tomorrow, when I’ll actually talk about what happened this weekend instead of rambling about things that happened 10 years ago.

I know y’all are on the edge of your seats.